


lagu dan irama

by anisstaranise



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Music, M/M, New York City
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-28 17:23:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10835874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anisstaranise/pseuds/anisstaranise
Summary: She showed him into the parlour where a boy not much younger than him had been sitting head bowed, notes wafting from the cello.He had been mesmerized the moment he stepped into the room but then the boy had looked at him- and he had been all the more entranced.





	lagu dan irama

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Spring Fling 2017](http://seblaineaffairs.tumblr.com/tagged/spring-fling-2017): Symphony
> 
> Title is in **Malay** meaning " _song and melody_ "

The melodious hums of the sonata resonate off the parlour’s four walls, vibrating low and sweet in his chest. He closes his eyes to immerse himself in the notes, the Brahms piece one of his favourites. He feels as if he’s floating, the sound of the cello transporting him to a musical utopia, striking his core with emotions the composition begs.

The soothing _allegro non troppo_ slowly draws him out of his sonata-induced daze, lazily letting his eyelids flutter open as the notes wash over him. He runs his hands along the boudoir grand piano, the mahogany lid protecting the keys from dust and careless fingers. His eyes idly sweep the room; from the massive Georges Suerat painting of the Eiffel Tower that takes up most of the wall to the gorgeous teak furniture tastefully scattered around the parlour.

His breath catches in his breastbone when his sights settle upon the figure in the middle of the room, a boy with legs that go on for days supporting a cello in between them, the spruce gleaming in the sun rays flooding the room from the floor-to-ceiling French windows. His eyes track the movements of a toned arm guiding the bow in its perpendicular gliding over the strings as slender fingers press notes on the fingerboard. The boy has his eyes closed, engrossed in the music as he had been; his body relaxed, his playing _semplice_ but burns passion across the strings just the same. A mark of a great musician, he thinks.

Then- the boy opens his eyes while he continues to play and he’s immediately drawn in by the intensity of them, drowning in flecks of gold amidst the green and something flutters in his stomach. His heart that was beating a steady _adagio_ races a _presto_ tempo instantaneously.

The boy holds his gaze and he’s suddenly self-conscious of his body, how he’s standing, where to look.

It isn’t the first time he’s reacted to the boy this way.

Earlier in the week, his mother’s allergies had acted up, signalling the start of spring. It had been a rather terrible one that rendered the resilient woman too miserable to get out of bed.

“I hate springtime,” his mother had grumbled; a sentiment he’s heard yearly ever since he can remember.

With a stuffy nose and a slight annoyance at her state in her tone, she had asked him for a favour; to help teach one of her private cello lessons while she recovers. His heart had grown ten times bigger in his chest, proud and flattered that his mother had entrusted such a responsibility unto him.

Although he’s only a freshman at NYU Steinhardt pursuing his Bachelor’s degree in String Studies, he’s already quite the skilled musician.

The son of distinguished musicians- his father a pianist, his mother a cellist- he had been classically trained at piano and various string instruments since he was five years old. His earliest memories as a child were of bopping in and out of the theater’s orchestra pit, of learning the difference between the Baroque and Early Romantic orchestras; each day filled with music and he had been in love with it since.

Although his first love is the violin- with its enthralling acoustics from the strings vibrating on his skin and the sensuous feel of the curved instrument tucked under his chin - the cello is a close second and he plays both impeccably. But playing an instrument is one thing; teaching someone how to play it is another.

The day following his mother’s request, he had walked up the stoop of a luxurious townhouse in Park Avenue, an address and a name scribbled on a piece of paper in his trembling hands. It would be his first experience teaching someone how to play the cello- he had been excited and nervous just the same.

After gingerly pressing the doorbell, an elegant woman he deduced to be his new student’s mother had opened the grand oak door and showed him into the parlour where a boy not much younger than him had been sitting head bowed, notes wafting from the cello.

Every glide of the bow had omitted a sound so beautiful he had wondered why the boy needed lessons in the first place. He had been mesmerized the moment he stepped into the room but then the boy had looked at him- and he had been all the more entranced, like a moment of _crescendo_ in a musical piece pulling him deeper into the song.

“Sebastian-” the woman had called to the boy. “- this is Yvette’s son, Blaine. He’ll be taking over your lessons for the week or so.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Sebastian had said offering a hand.

He had reached out to take Sebastian’s hand and tried to reciprocate with a greeting but like an unsynchronized orchestra, his brain and body had refused to coordinate; he neither could think of anything to say nor what to do other than stare at Sebastian’s impossibly green eyes.

There’s a sudden pulsating change of pitch and the fumbled notes bring him out of his musings of their first meeting.

He clears his throat as he makes his way across the room, his musical instinct taking over as he regards Sebastian’s long, slender fingers gripping the bow.

“Try a more gentile glide, Sebastian,” he instructs as he eyes the music sheets on the stand before Sebastian. “The note is meant to be played _accarezzevole.”_

A grin pulls at the corners of Sebastian’s mouth, something teasing, flirtatious, and his stomach dips in a way he’s grown accustomed to since he’s met Sebastian. There’s something about the boy, there’s a pull he can’t deny; the way the sonata Sebastian plays pulls him in and begs him to fall.

Sebastian tries the note again, his fingers on the board exactly where they’re meant to be yet the note isn’t quite right.

“No, that sounds too aggressive,” he notes. “Try to relax your bowing arm.”

Sebastian tries again. It starts off wonderfully before he fumbles again, the note somehow sounding flat, dispassionate.

“Not quite,” he huffs impatiently and strides behind Sebastian, seating himself at the edge of the stool.

He’s too engrossed in achieving the right note that he’s barely aware that he’s pressed against Sebastian’s back, their bodies aligned like a melody.

“ _Accarezzevole_ is to play in an expressing and caressing manner, like so,” he says.

He places his fingers along Sebastian’s on the board as he curls a hand over Sebastian’s bowing hand, gently guiding the bow. Together they move in unison, synchronized- and the notes that follow are perfect; expressive and caressing, almost seductive.

“Like that?” Sebastian asks when he stops playing, voice low.

Sebastian’s words ghost against his skin and he’s surprised by their proximity. He had been so lost in the music that he hadn’t realize just how close he is to this boy that mesmerizes him so.

“Oh,” he exclaims, releasing Sebastian’s bow hand but he doesn’t get up, he doesn’t even move; he’s so lost in those green eyes.

They’re so close now that he finds himself tracing the freckles that are speckling the skin down Sebastian’s neck with his eyes and he silently wonders about all the rest that disappear under Sebastian’s shirt. He’s riveted by one freckle that resembles a _semibreve_ note when he realizes how Sebastian’s eyes are ticking down, falling to his lips.

He feels that pull again, a reprise that’s calling him, beckoning him to the precipice, just waiting for him to fall- fall into Sebastian.

His eyes tick to Sebastian’s lips, too, enticed by how close they are; he can almost taste a kiss.

He’s tempted to fall, to leap into the _concerto_ that is Sebastian. So, he tilts his head slightly; it’s his invitation, a declaration. _Fall with me_.

As the bow gently clatters to the floor, Sebastian slowly reaches back to cup his neck, _pizzicato_ -coarse fingertips pulling, conducting him closer and he lets himself fall over the edge, fall into Sebastian as he crashes their lips together.

Sebastian kisses him hard and hungry- a _forte_ of crashing lips- before its pace slows; _diminuendo_. There is a rhythm to them, two parts of a musical piece in harmony and every glide of their lips a symphony, a magnum opus of their own making.

Basking in the rays of the springtime sun, he lets Sebastian kiss him in all the varied tempos- _moderato_ to _vivace_ , _allegro_ to _adagio_ \- and he reciprocates in tune; Sebastian plays him to the beat and he doesn’t mind it at all.

 _Fall with me_.

This is the start of their song- and it is a song he never wants to end.

\---END

**Author's Note:**

> The Brahms Cello [Sonata](http://imslp.org/wiki/Special:ReverseLookup/370244)
> 
> Thank you for reading.  
> Comments welcomed.


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